The Wager
by Sullys Sidekick
Summary: March 2010 short story challenge. *AR* The idea is to combine certain photos in a logical way. The first screen cap is of Sully, clean shaven and wearing a suit.  The second is of Michaela, outside the homestead, in simple dress and windblown long hair.


**The Wager**

By: Tess Thieler

March 2010 DQMW Short Story Challenge

After rising from the "much too soft" mattress that ached his lower back, Sully dressed for the day. What had he gotten himself into?

He tugged at the starched white bow tie constricting his throat then struggled into the dark suit coat. How did Boston men wear this contraption all day? Brand new shiny black shoes pinched his feet and he glanced at the fire burning in his room. Temptation to launch the torturous foot vices into the flames beckoned him. Determined to tough it out, he stepped from his room in the Quinn's elaborate home feeling naked without his knife and tomahawk. But a bet was a bet - twenty-four hours in each other's world. Michaela had it easier.

Picking himself up from the bottom of the carpeted staircase, Sully swallowed his pride. New city shoes with smooth soles made carpeting extremely slippery. The clock couldn't tick the minutes away fast enough. Since it took him longer to dress than his hosts, he'd be having breakfast alone. Probably for the best, he thought while taking his seat and eyeing the confusing place setting. Sully nearly jumped out of his chair when a hand settled a linen napkin onto his lap. THIS he could never get use to. How's a man supposed to feel like a real man in this world anyway? The different pieces of silverware puzzled him; however, the consistent clearing of the servant's throats when he chose the wrong one guided him. All he wanted to do was eat for goodness sake! What did it matter WHICH fork he used as long as it worked? Reaching for a shallow glass of water to quench his thirst, Sully was again reprimanded by a clearing throat.

"All I want is a drink of water," he stated none too happily.

"That's a fingerbowl, Sir."

"A what?"

"To wash your fingertips."

"It looks like a glass of water," the mountain man protested.

"It's a fingerbowl, Sir."

Fine - no water. The now cold coffee? No thanks. Giving up, Sully tossed his napkin on the table then politely thanked the servers. He approached the butler.

"Is there anything that needs fixin' around here?"

"Sir?"

"Door hinges to tighten… horses to tend to?"

"No Sir."

What would he do all day? Walk the streets of Boston? Not in these shoes!

"There's a fire warming the library, Sir. If you fancy literature, there's a large selection."

Reading sounded easy enough. "Where's the library?"

"Second floor."

Figures. Up and down the dangerous staircase in hazardous shoes. Why not? He almost laughed at the irony. Almost.

After finding a book of Walt Whitman's poetry, Sully settled onto a sofa, finally freeing his feet. This wasn't so bad. He barely read half the first page when he heard another clearing throat. NOW what? Shifting, he noticed a servant dusting the bookshelves. "Yes?"

"Your shoes, Sir." She eyed them and nodded.

"I have to wear them just to read?"

"It is customary, Sir, when in other's company." She continued dusting.

Begrudgingly, Sully wedged his feet into the torturous devices again.

"Can you do that later?" he suggested, hoping she'd leave.

"My cleaning distracts you?"

If he could be alone to remove the painful shoes again he'd agree to anything. He nodded.

"Very well."

Sully resumed his book, anxiously awaiting her departure.

Instead, she sat poised in the chair across from him, her eyes upon him.

"Ma'am?"

"The library is mine to maintain, Sir. I tend to it and anyone who uses it."

Sully's resolve depleted. "I think I'll read this in my room then."

"It's being cleaned, Sir. The bedding's been stripped."

Of course! Why not! Being forced to wear these horrible shoes was his destiny. Free to do as he pleased, yet this felt more like prison. What he wouldn't give to be surrounded by woods again. He glanced at the server. "Um, it's okay, you can go back to what you usually do."

"Thank you, Sir."

Anything was better than being stared at. Sully checked the clock on the wall - 10:30am. This was going to be the longest twenty-four hours of his life.

Back in Colorado Springs, frustration masked itself clearly over Michaela's usual calm facade. Sleeping in Sully's lean-to on wooly buffalo hide wasn't as cozy as she'd hoped. Perhaps she shouldn't have wagered that she could live in Sully's world easier than he could live in hers. What was she thinking? Despite their friendly competition, the animals still needed tending to. Making her way to the barn, she milked the cow and gathered a few eggs. Tempted, she eyed the homestead knowing her stove would make cooking much easier, but she wanted to win fair and square. Her conscious forced her back to the lean-to where she attempted to cook scrambled eggs. She should have known better. The forest animals surely resented her presence now with the pungent smell of charred food invading their noses. Burying the burned eggs quickly dissipated the odor. The small amount of milk that remained wasn't enough to curb her hunger. Her stomach growled. Living in Sully's world meant fishing or checking his snares if she wanted to eat. Not interested in handling dirty wiggling worms, Michaela strapped on Sully's belt, tomahawk, and knife, donned the canteen strap over her shoulder then wandered through the woods following the general direction Sully showed her. She did good - only becoming lost once and tearing her skirt twice on thorny underbrush before finding the first snare. Like her stomach, it was empty. So were the next two. Weary, she scanned the treetops for the sun which already reached high noon and she hadn't even had breakfast yet. One snare to go. How did Sully ever survive like this?

Lost again, she happily stumbled upon some berries. The bush was nearly picked clean, but she managed to scrounge up a handful. Reclining at the base of a tree, she ate the berries and drank some water from the canteen. Hiking for hours on an empty stomach being weighed down by a heavy canteen plus a large knife and tomahawk wasn't easy. Her leg muscles burned, her feet pinched, and her back ached. Why did she need to prove herself to Sully anyway? Reality came to her in a rush. Living in what society deemed a man's occupation, Michaela found herself competing with men to prove she was a capable doctor. She didn't have to feel competitive with Sully. There was no reason to determine whose world was more difficult. She owed Sully an apology.

Determined to find that last snare, with renewed energy she dusted off her torn skirt then retraced her steps. It didn't take her long to find familiar surroundings again, then the last snare. It wasn't empty. A small rabbit awaited its fate. Michaela crept up on the frightened creature, drawing Sully's knife from its sheath. Was she really hungry enough to…? She looked at the bunny's tiny twitching nose… then cut the rope. The rabbit scurried away. Michaela was programmed for saving lives, not taking them. She was no hunter. Perhaps she could find more berries.

Buzzing sounds now captured her attention. Following them, she found a beehive in the trunk of a tree. She searched the ground for a strong thick stick - good for poking in and hopefully pulling out some honey. Approaching the opening, she ignored the few bees buzzing about and thrust the end of the stick into the hole. It got stuck. With hunger driving her efforts, she pulled… and pulled… and pulled. Finally dislodging the stick, the motion sent her tumbling to the ground. Bees followed and she screamed.

"SULLY!"

Strong arms gathered her thrashing form against a warm firm chest. A steady heartbeat thumped beneath her ear. "Michaela… I'm here. It's alright," he murmured calmly, caressing her head with a gentle hand.

She opened her eyes. "Sully?"

"Are you alright? You fell out of bed."

"Bed?"

"That must have been some dream."

It was only then that Michaela noticed her middle-of-the-night surroundings. Sully cradled her on their bedroom floor between their bed and the fire burning low in the hearth. Complete relief blanketed her and she wrapped her arms about her husband's lean torso. He squeezed her tighter.

"Care to tell me about your dream?"

The masculine timbre of his voice invaded her mind, soothing her rattled nerves. "It was horrible. I found some honey to eat, but bees came after me."

"I would have helped you."

"You couldn't. You were in Boston."

"Boston?"

"It was a ridiculous wager to see who could live easier in the other's world." She looked up into his caring eyes. "Sully, I'm sorry. I promise I'll never ask you to go to Boston."

"Hey… relax." He lifted her to sit more comfortably in his lap then rested his head affectionately against hers. "I don't think you'd have much luck anyway."

When she pulled back to silently question why, he confirmed, "I'd never go to Boston… not without you."


End file.
